


The Heart Of Slavery

by QuietLula



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Violence, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 00:16:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4079323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuietLula/pseuds/QuietLula
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan comes to terms with the fact that there are some things he will always be a slave to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heart Of Slavery

**Author's Note:**

> The story is set within the time gap between episode 201 and 202.

The season had just turned cold in Kattegat. Winters in the North were like nothing Athelstan had ever experienced. They were frigid, substantial, frank, terrifyingly beautiful things. 

The sunlight was brighter and clearer as it peaked over the snowcapped mountains surrounding the fjord. The sea turned silent, dark and opaque. The bare, skeletal trees looked wet and black.

Athelstan would stand outside, in the blowing snowflakes, close his eyes, listen to the tranquil, cavernous stillness, and imagine he was the only living creature in the world. 

The arctic, prickling air cleaned out his lungs and the throbbing hush that fell over everything soothed his mind. It was his favorite time of year. 

While the cold breezes and frosty air made everything more peaceful and empty outdoors, it also forced everyone to cluster together indoors, around roaring fires and under heavy, snug layers, trying to thaw out and stay warm. 

The first big snow had yet to blanket the village so the people of Kattegat were trying to get in last minute visits to friends or family and take care of necessitates needed for the coming months. The preparations for the building of new boats continued even in the frost and the younger, more eager, of the men still diligently trained with their weapons. Everyone was doing all they could before the community would have to shut down and close up, trapped inside by snow and freezing temperatures. 

Ragnar had recently returned from his final diplomatic trip of the year. He had been to visit a fairly large village nearly two days ride southwest, known for growing vegetables, due to its productive soil, and making elaborately decorated drinking horns. There he had negotiated with local farmers and craftsmen to export some of their products through the port at Kattegat next spring in order to raise their sales and revenue, connect with neighboring markets and likely increase trade and bulk up the variety of food choices available in Kattegat.

So, with a chilly wind blowing outside and all work done and obligations completed for the day, Ragnar, Athelstan and a group of Norsemen had been sitting around the warm fire pit, that ran down the middle of the floor in the hall, for hours. Well into their cups, the men were trading tales of extravagant and, Athelstan knew, improbable exploits. Penis jokes had been hurled, stories of sexual conquests detailed and retellings of famous battles narrated. 

Athelstan looked around at the men gathered close to the fire. They were laughing, playfully punching shoulders and toasting cups together. They looked like a bunch of rowdy ruffians. Dirty, boyish and untamed. The fire light cast a faded orange glow over everyone, making their skin look rosy hued and eyes luminescent. Floki began leading the group in singing a juvenile song, waving his hands spastically and giggling. Their roaring voices and slow-eyed gazes indicated the men were more than halfway drunk. 

Ragnar included, if his boisterous laugh, too shiny eyes and loose limbed slump were any indication. He was sitting on Athelstan's left, closer than truly necessary. Ragnar always seemed to find an excuse to be within close proximity to Athelstan. Their shoulders touched and knees occasional knocked against each other. 

Ragnar leaned over Athelstan and abruptly grabbed the cup from his hand, filling it to the brim from the shared pitcher of ale. Athelstan had lost count of how many pitchers had made the rounds between the men so far that night.

Ragnar passed the wooden pitcher to Floki, who was sitting on the other side of Athelstan, reaching over Athelstan's lap to do so. Athelstan got a whiff of Ragnar's familiar smell. Smoke, leather, something sweet like crushed grass and, underneath it all, that musky smell that was all male. All Ragnar. 

Ragnar leaned back, handed Athelstan his drink and put his big hand on Athelstan’s knee, giving it a squeeze. The Earl picked up his own cup and tapped it against Athelstan’s nearly overflowing mug, inclining his head so close to Athelstan’s face that Athelstan could feel hot puffs of breath hitting his cheek. Athelstan shot Ragnar a sidelong glance full of amusement.

“Thank you.” Athelstan sing-songed and then rolled his eyes, chuckling pleasantly at Ragnar’s complete lack of concern for personal space. 

“Drink. Drink." Ragnar nodded at him, clicking their cups together once again. Athelstan laughed and pretended he was going to pour his drink onto the floor. Ragnar playfully growled and bared his teeth at Athelstan in mock threat. Athelstan smiled, not at all intimidated, and drank a sip, turning back to the conversations bouncing around him. 

Ragnar had not taken his hand off of Athelstan's knee. 

To Athelstan, the physical affection that was offered up so freely in this place had been a bit of a culture shock. He almost could not believe his eyes when he was first brought to this cold, formidable land of savages. The way they interacted with such casual affection - laughing, kissing, hugging.

At the farm, it was routine to see Ragnar cuddled with Gyda on the bed at night, telling her stories and rubbing her long hair or for Lagertha to lean over while walking by to give Bjorn a kiss good morning on the forehead. 

For Athelstan, who for most of his life had rarely felt anything beyond the most necessary of indifferent touches from his fellow brothers at Lindisfarne, it was a revelation. Especially since Ragnar and his family thought nothing of also including the little former monk within their demonstrative, domestic physicality.

The monks, with whom Athelstan had spent most of his previous life, had not exactly been the most affectionate. They were more likely to give him a reprimanding slap on the hand with a stick when he misspelled a word while transcribing than a friendly caress for any reason.

Athelstan could not remember a time before coming to this blustery Northern country, with its uninhibited society that always seemed eager to share a joke or bed with equal uncomplicated willingness, when he had ever experienced such loving, physical affection. 

Then there was Ragnar, with his easy, continuous affections. Towards everyone, really. He was tactile. Loved to touch, pat, kiss and hug. He did it often enough - constantly loving on his children, placing his arm around his wife, doling out friendly slaps onto the backs of friends. 

But there was something different about the attentions Ragnar gave Athelstan verses others. The touches were not quite as casual, the looks Ragnar would direct at Athelstan lingered longer, his startling blue eyes always found Athelstan's face in the crowd first. And Ragnar was forever finding an excuse to be near Athelstan. 

People were starting to notice. 

One such person, was a large middle-aged man with wide shoulders and a long black beard whom Athelstan thought he recalled was named Endre. Athelstan did not know the big man, never spoke to him before, but remembered seeing him out training with the other warriors and in the hall for festivities on occasion. 

Once, he also vaguely remembered, when Endre’s name had been mentioned in passing, hearing Torstein call the man a foolish drunk, while rolling his eyes. Athelstan thought, that for a man to be distastefully called a drunk by this unruly lot was truly saying something. 

Endre, who was sitting directly across the fire from Athelstan, had been cutting his eyes at Athelstan all night. Sending barely concealed, disgusted looks Athelstan's way more and more frequently as the rounds of alcohol added up. Athelstan could not think of anything he had done to the man to cause such boorish behavior so he simply tried to ignore it.

Athelstan watched as the big, bearded man adjusted his furry coat, it looked like it was made of bear fur but Athelstan could not be sure, around his slightly distended middle, took another gulp of alcohol, placed his cup on the floor and then turned to his neighboring companion.

Athelstan supposed the companion must have come to the hall with Endre because Athelstan did not recognize him. The two huddled together laughing and chatting, unaware of Athelstan's scrutiny. Endre, while speaking in a low voice to the man next to him, was picking the dirt out from under his unkempt fingernails then flicking the grime into the fire. Athelstan shuttered and began to turn away from the uncouth sight before hearing a strand of their fragmented conversation that caught his ear, freezing him in place. 

Endre, in a coarse voice that only a truly inebriated person would consider a whisper, gestured a grimy hand in Athelstan’s direction and said, "I should get him to suck my dick. The little ergi!" The other man across the fire beside Endre snickered. It was obvious to whom they were referring. 

Athelstan felt the tingling, feverish sensation of blood rushing to his face. His stomach dropped sickeningly and he had trouble catching his breath momentarily, like the wind had been knocked out of him. He immediately looked down at his feet and pretended he had not heard the offensive comment. It was pointless to get upset, he coached himself. What was a slave going to say to a free man about it anyway? 

Athelstan had heard the talk. Whispers spoken behind cupped hands and laughter that stopped when Athelstan was within earshot.

_Who is the little slave that Earl Ragnar is so fond of? What tricks did he use to get so close? Oh, I can think of a trick or two he might perform that would make the Earl notice him!_

Athelstan was not blind or deaf. He knew what some people said about his relationship with the Earl. Ragnar probably knew it, too. Not that Ragnar would give much of a damn. Ragnar rarely ever paid attention to idle talk, considering it harmless, nosy blather. Ragnar had more important things to do, like sailing uncharted seas, discovering new lands and ruling over his territory, than to worry about gossiping fools, so the issue was not even part of his everyday consciousness. He just continued to do whatever he wanted and did not ask for approval from anyone. Athelstan wished he could be so unaffected. 

Burning with embarrassment, Athelstan discreetly shifted his eyes over to Ragnar in order to gauge whether the Earl had overheard the comment. Wanting to save himself from the further humiliation of knowing others had heard the slur, he sent a prayer to all the gods that Ragnar had not been made aware.

But the hard, cold stare Ragnar was shooting the man proved to Athelstan that Ragnar had indeed heard the insult. Ragnar straightened up and then slowly leaned over his knees, never taking his intense, sharp glare from Endre's face. 

"What did you say?" Ragnar calmly asked, just above a whisper, his eyebrows raised and a burning wildfire raging in his eyes.

Another time, Ragnar perhaps may have ignored such a vulgar, drunken comment or simply made a snide remark back meant to put the man in his place. Tonight though, he had drank a little too much, gone without enough sleep a little too long and worried over all his new found responsibilities a little too hard. 

Athelstan bit his lip, watching Ragnar. Athelstan could tell by the way Ragnar rocked forward, clenched his jaw and leveled Endre with an icy look that could have doused the flames dancing in front of them, that Ragnar was crashing head first into the boundaries of his patience. 

Ragnar was usually a fairly even-tempered man; it took a lot to genuinely rouse his anger. But even so, Ragnar was a Norseman through and through and Athelstan had never met a group of people more enthusiastically ready for a fight than these men of the North. 

It was obvious that Ragnar was in no mood to endure some loud mouth, ignorant, son of a whore coming into his hall and spitting vile insults. Especially not when the drunken inbreed had dared to abuse a member of Ragnar's household. 

Most of the time, when Ragnar was furious, it was a cold phenomenon. Dark, still and quiet. But on rare occasions, Athelstan had seen his temper explode like lightening. Quick, bright and shocking. When he got like that, Ragnar would lash out and fight like a demon possessed, never mind the odds.

The room got suddenly quiet, everyone coming to a standstill. The atmosphere was tense, unpleasant and anticipatory. 

Torstein took a slow, hesitant gulp of ale. Floki nibbled on a finger and shifted his gaze back and forth between the two men. Durinn, a young warrior and close friend of Torstein who was sitting on the other side of Ragnar, raised an interested eyebrow and guardedly sat up straighter, taking in the change from jovial camaraderie to combative standoff.

Athelstan shuffled his feet and looked down at his hands clasped around the mug in his lap. Mouth dry and blood pounding in his ears. 

Endre looked up and his black, squinty eyes peered around the room, sweeping over Ragnar’s antagonistic demeanor flippantly, until they finally landed on Athelstan. Seemingly unconcerned, he snapped, "What? The boy is just a filthy Christian slave, isn't he?" All drunken, aggressive challenge. 

Before Athelstan could even suck in a shaking gasp, Ragnar was up, one foot on the edge of the stone fire pit and launching himself straight across the flames and onto the other man. Colliding together, he grabbed Endre's furry coat in both hands and threw the big man backwards. Endre fell off his stool and landed hard, his inebriation making his reactions delayed, his head flopped backwards and smashed against the wooden floor. Ragnar was on top of the stretched out, bewildered body instantly. 

It happened so suddenly that at first all Athelstan and the other surrounding warriors could think to do was simply rear back in surprise. They watched the two men punch and roll and tear at each other. Endre was larger, with a massively stout build, but Ragnar was quicker and angrier and a good deal less drunk. His quick burst of clarifying fury having almost instantly sobered him up. The men viciously hit, kicked and clawed. Arms swinging wildly, teeth bared, elbows striking, fists thumping. It was complete mayhem. 

Ragnar in a fight was a terrifying and magnificent thing.

Finally, when Endre emitted a painful howl after a particularly brutal, crunching punch from Ragnar which left the foul-mouthed man coughing blood, it was as if the scene before the observing, intoxicated Norsemen exploded into focus. 

Torstein and Durinn jumped into the fray pulling Ragnar away from the bloodied man while Floki and Endre's friend gathered Endre up from where he laid bleeding and groaning on the wooden floor. 

Ragnar, face creased in cruel, blistering fury, snapped his arms out of Durinn's grasp. Torstein attempted to pat the Earl on the shoulder, trying to calm him, but also so Torstein could keep his hands on Ragnar, restraining, in case the furious man decided to charge again. Ragnar angrily shook him off, too. 

"Get him out of here." Ragnar panted, staring daggers at Endre.

The beaten man, being basically held upright by the arm around his friend’s shoulders, snorted divisively and spit blood onto the floor, wet strings of bloody mucous and saliva hanging from his beard.

"NOW! Get him out of my sight!" Ragnar roared, taking a menacing step forward. 

Endre’s friend jerked Endre towards the door, leading the trounced loser, who was muttering under his breath, away from the fire and the others. The friend was trying to keep Endre quiet, most likely telling Endre to shut up before they both lost their heads to the half mad wolf they called their Earl. 

Ragnar watched them go, following Endre with dark, stormy eyes until the big man was through the doorway and out of view. Then, without moving his body an inch, his eyes shifted over to Athelstan. They burned straight through Athelstan with fiery intensity. He had never seen eyes so icy blue blaze so hot, it made Athelstan’s insides feel like they were crumbling to ash.

"Leave. Everyone go." Ragnar commanded, giving a small, dismissive jerk with his head. He never took his eyes off Athelstan though. If the others noticed, they wisely kept silent and, realizing the party was officially over, moseyed off in the direction of their beds. 

"You. Come with me." Ragnar directed at Athelstan, staring at him in a way that made it clear there would be no argument.

Athelstan swallowed. 

Ragnar turned and stalked off, not even glancing over his shoulder to make sure Athelstan was shadowing him. Ragnar seemed able to know where Athelstan was from shear instinct alone most of the time though, so maybe he did not need to look back in order to know if the small Englishman was close behind.

Athelstan took a stabilizing breath, trying to stop the shaking in his hands and eradicate the alarm still lodged in his chest, and stepped after the enraged mountain lion of a man striding across the room.

Ragnar prowled out of the side entrance of the hall and burst into the street, his arms swinging, fingers twitching, back ramrod straight, and gait impatiently fast-paced. Athelstan realized where Ragnar was leading when they turned to the right and then down a short, secluded alleyway.

Ragnar reached the door to Athelstan’s room and irritably unlatched the knob, swinging it open so roughly that it rattled on its hinges, and let himself inside.

Athelstan followed behind at a slower pace, closing the door softly after entering and cautiously watching the irate man pace across the dirt floor of the small room like an annoyed, caged animal. Ragnar’s body was rigid and he was blowing out frenzied huffs of air through his nose.

Athelstan’s wide eyes traced the larger man’s movements. Athelstan took another calming breath, forced his blood to stop racing through his veins and waited for the powerful, fuming energy cracking off Ragnar to subside.

Eventually, the pacing stopped and Ragnar stood still in the middle of the room. He lifted his head and took in the sight of Athelstan evenly monitoring him. His tense shoulders relaxed slightly and his fists unclenched, as though the image of Athelstan’s serene countenance instantly soothed him. 

Now that they were in private and Athelstan had regained control of his nervous, discomfited emotions and the thundering, seething storm around Ragnar had weakened, Athelstan addressed the man standing in front of him.

“Are you finished?”

“No!” Ragnar retorted petulantly, but then caught Athelstan’s eye and gave a sheepish smirk.

Athelstan replayed the fight over in his mind, frowning. Technically, although Ragnar had not ever really treated him as such, Athelstan was Ragnar’s slave. Ragnar had no real reason to take up for a slighted slave. Slaves were property, viewed as nearly inhuman by some. Athelstan had addressed the issue with Ragnar once before without much satisfying closure. What was Athelstan to Ragnar? 

In some ways, Athelstan supposed, he had always been a slave. When he was living at the monastery, he had been trapped on an island, a prisoner to prayer, a captive of worship, a submissive to pious ritual. Thinking back on his time as a monk, now that he was removed from it, he realized how it had felt inescapable, monotonous and confining. He had not had choices then, he simply followed the word of God because it was what he had been taught to do since he was a child. 

He remembered standing on the breezy, sandy shore at Lindisfarne, listening to the waves, watching his foot prints be washed away, and looking out at a vast, endless ocean with a restless, anxious, displaced sensation in his chest. He imagined he heard the lapping water hiss, "This is not your life." Sometimes, even though he loved God and writing, he would have to force himself to turn away and return to the unfeeling, stone monastery and his repetitive, sacred duties. 

With Ragnar, despite Athelstan’s title as a slave, he had more freedom and choice than he had ever previously experienced. Still, it did not erase the fact that he was literally owned by another person. 

Athelstan knew Ragnar profoundly cared for him, felt it every day in the way the Norseman touched him, talked to him and worried over his well-being. But there was that nagging, insecure voice inside Athelstan’s mind that would tauntingly bellow, “Even still, you are just his slave!” 

But if that were so, Athelstan pondered self-consciously, than why would Ragnar get so infuriated and bother to risk injury to himself over a demeaning slur made to his slave. 

Athelstan gathered his courage. 

“Why did you do that?” Athelstan inquired honestly, eyes downcast and cheeks flushing, slightly afraid of the answer.

“You'd rather I let him insult you? He’s lucky I didn't put a knife through his throat. Should have cut his fucking tongue out!” Ragnar ranted, slicing his arm through the air to emphasize his ruthless words. 

Athelstan gave Ragnar a long, thoughtful stare, his expression pensive. 

“Ragnar. Why are you so angry?” He calmly implored, his brow creased.

Ragnar haughtily crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at his feet, his ponytail hanging over one shoulder. He scuffed the toe of one boot against the floor. It made a scraping noise in the dirt. He gave a severe sigh that vibrated his entire torso, pursed his lips and shook his head.

“I will not have anyone hurt you. That bastard was rude to you. I won't tolerate it.” Ragnar looked up with a steely-eyed, defiant expression, “And now, he knows it.” His voice sounded lethal and serious.

Athelstan stared back at this ferocious, protective, shrewd man and felt the muscles around his heart jolt. 

He walked over to the cabinet near the door and lit two candles. Leaving one where it sat, he carried the other closer to where Ragnar stood. The orange light leapt across the interior walls, setting the room aglow in radiant warmth. From his adjacent position, he took in Ragnar with more detail, looking for injuries.

Ragnar was relatively unscathed, save for a shallow cut on the side of his neck, most likely from catching a slashing fingernail, and bloody, scraped knuckles. 

Athelstan tugged on one of Ragnar’s shirt sleeves, pulling him towards the bed. 

“Come on. Let’s clean you up.”

"I'm fine." Ragnar grumped; he waved the hand not trapped by Athelstan’s grip on his sleeve, airily dismissive. 

Athelstan just tugged harder and guided the larger man to sit on the edge of the bed. Ragnar rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and shuffled his feet, but dutifully let Athelstan lead him, without another objection. 

Once Ragnar was seated, Athelstan went to the pitcher of water he kept on the table in the corner and poured some of the cold liquid into a wooden bowl. Grabbing the bowl and a clean rag he walked back to the bed and knelt down in front of Ragnar.

Carefully, he cleaned the scrape on Ragnar’s neck, their faces only inches apart as he wiped the rag against Ragnar’s smooth skin and beard. Then Athelstan took Ragnar’s hands, delicately washing away the blood and cleaning the torn skin. The room was silent, except for the sound of their breathing and the sloshing water. 

Ragnar simply watched Athelstan fuss over him, never making so much as a pained hiss when Athelstan tended to his wounds. Athelstan could feel Ragnar’s scorching gaze rolling over his body. Bent over Ragnar’s tough-skinned hands, trying to concentrate on his task, Athelstan closed his eyes and blew out a shallow puff of air, trying to push down the potent reaction Ragnar’s captivating attention always stirred up in him. 

When Athelstan felt like he could speak, without his voice breaking or cheeks blushing embarrassingly, he softly stated, “You did not have to do this, you know? Fight for me, I mean.” 

“Yes, I did.” Spoken as though it were apparent and Ragnar was affronted that Athelstan did not know it. Ragnar pulled a damp hand from Athelstan’s tender grip and slid it under the dark hair at the back of Athelstan’s neck, pulling the smaller man closer. Athelstan’s stomach pressed against Ragnar’s knees. 

Ragnar, speaking into Athelstan’s temple, hummed in a soothing tone, “You are my friend. My family." He paused and then professed in a voice that bordered on agitated, like it should be obvious, "You’re mine.”

If anything could make Ragnar fly into a sudden rage it would be someone threatening or insulting his family. So there it was. Athelstan supposed he had known deep down, that by now, after years of living together, that was how Ragnar saw him. Like his family, one of his own, one to protect…one to love. 

Athelstan drew back; Ragnar let him angle away a little, but not escape. Ragnar tightened his fingers around the back of Athelstan’s neck, indicating he wanted Athelstan to stay close. 

Athelstan’s ridiculously innocent, blue eyes searched Ragnar’s face. "I am also your slave."

Ragnar dropped his eyes for a moment, uncomfortable, then looked up and returned Athelstan’s piercingly sensitive gaze. 

“That will change. I promise. When it is safe, you will no longer be a slave.” His words were soft and heartfelt, like he were whispering confessions to a sleeping baby. They penetrated straight to the bolted up, restricted part of Athelstan that he had purposefully ignored for years, maybe his whole life, that secret chamber that hoped for liberation. 

Something within the former monk's chest let loose, swelled and caught in his throat.

Ragnar gave the scruff of Athelstan’s neck a final affectionate, light squeeze, let his hand drag down the side of Athelstan’s throat then dropped it back into his own lap, releasing the smaller man. 

Athelstan stood up quickly, back to Ragnar, busing himself by putting away the items he had used for cleaning Ragnar’s abrasions, trying to avoid the Norseman's eyes; fearing that if he looked at Ragnar's honest face it would force the pocket of fervent, yearning emotion to be released and Athelstan would never be able to ensnare it again. 

Ragnar, standing up and idly inspecting the containers and pots on one of Athelstan’s shelves, running his fingers along the smooth surface of the wood, bone and metal items, nonchalantly said, “Tomorrow you start training. You need to know how to handle a weapon in order to be a free man. You need to know how to defend yourself.” It was stated decisively, as though the matter was already settled. 

Athelstan’s head lurched around and he gawked at Ragnar’s back with astonishment. “Really?” Athelstan squeaked. 

Ragnar turned to look at Athelstan and lightly chuckled at his incredulous expression. “Yes. I will train you myself. When I am busy, I’ll have Torstein do it. You want to learn, yes?”

Athelstan nodded and beamed at the taller man. “Thank you, Ragnar.”

“You are welcome.” Ragnar ducked his face and briefly tucked his lips between his teeth, the gesture looking shy and modest. “Don't thank me yet. It will be hard work.”

Ragnar slowly strode towards Athelstan, the taller man’s gaze was fond but had an underlying spark of something more intense. It made Athelstan’s breath catch. When Ragnar was within reach, he pulled the smaller man into a long hug, hands pressing into Athelstan’s back. Athelstan rapidly returned it, the warmth of Ragnar's large, strong body making Athelstan's arms break out into goose bumps. Though, Athelstan was briefly taken aback at first; in spite of all of Ragnar’s playful and persistent touching, the Norseman did not actually give full body hugs to Athelstan very often. In fact, Athelstan could not recall a time when it had happened.

Ragnar stepped back, looking down at Athelstan with a charmed expression, and gently clasped Athelstan's face between his hot hands. Athelstan fit his own smaller hands into the curve of Ragnar’s elbows. 

"Get some sleep. I will see you in the morning." Ragnar gave a little sideways smirk that made one eye squint and nodded his head once.

Out of nowhere, that voice, the one that came from the shadowy recesses of Athelstan’s conflicted mind, purred enticingly, “You will never truly be free. Even in freedom, your heart will always be a slave to this man.” 

Athelstan shivered and contemplated the thought. 

He realized it scared him because the words rang true from where they were clanking and rattling at the bottom of his heart. Even as a free man, he did not want to be parted from Ragnar. If slavery was being under the influence or domination of another, than Athelstan supposed he would always be shackled to his loyalty to this Norseman. Freed or not.

That perhaps in a way he would never be free completely; that when it came to Ragnar, Athelstan did not have a choice.

It was a powerful realization. 

Surprisingly though, the idea of being a slave to his timid, perplexing heart did not feel like a barbed, sharp piece of iron twisting into his gut, the way it usually did when he had previously thought of his own slavery.

No, instead, thinking of being bound to Ragnar, felt like an affectionate, warm embrace on a cold winter night, one Athelstan was long overdue. 

It felt like the liberation that perhaps he had sought all along.

Ragnar released Athelstan's face and turned to make his way out of the room. At the doorway, he stopped and gave Athelstan another considerate, kind, quirky smile, one only Ragnar was capable of, and quietly walked out into the chilly night.

Athelstan watched him leave and was left standing in his little room, listening to the sound of his expectant, full, happy heart thudding in his chest. 

Abruptly, following an overwhelming urge, Athelstan rushed forward and followed out the door to watch Ragnar stride through the snowflakes that had just begun to fall from the black, iridescent, colossal sky until Ragnar turned the corner and was out of sight. 

Athelstan stood alone in the middle of the alleyway and this time when he closed his eyes and sucked in a breath of the icy, winter air, he imagined that he and Ragnar were the only living creatures in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, kudos and constructive criticisms are always welcome and very much appreciated! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
